


Survive

by MeltedFlames



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-21 13:47:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18703543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeltedFlames/pseuds/MeltedFlames
Summary: Gendry's perspective for the Battle of Winterfell and its aftermath





	Survive

 Survival

_Fuck_.

The night was freezing and pitch black, a heavy coat of fear washing over everything in sight. Gendry was leaving the latrines for the third time in the past hour and he didn't think he could feel any less prepared for what was to come. As he rinsed his hands in a nearby bucket and grabbed his mace, he felt a massive hand pull his collar back.

"Stop hiding back here and get in position," a gruff voice said. The Hound shoved him ahead. "There'll be plenty of time to shit when you die."

Gendry took a deep breath and walked forward. Davos had explained the plan after bringing a large bowl of soup and bread to him at the forge the afternoon before, but he still didn't fully understand how anyone expected them to win. Why had they put him in the frontlines? He paused as he took in the sheer scope of the army in front of him - thousands of Unsullied, Wildlings, and Northmen stood in a meticulous formation. He knew the logistics decently well - the Dothraki would bring their equestrian might first, causing the first massive wave of damage, then the rest of them could begin their charge. Still, Gendry couldn't figure out how their thirty-to-fifty-thousand men were supposed to be a match for the army of the dead.

"Oh for fuck's sake," the Hound said as he pushed in front of him to their positions between Tormund and the final men of the Night's Watch. Gendry followed quickly, studying the armies to his left.

"You're still here?" Tormund asked him, his massive blue eyes wide with feigned surprise. Gendry had no response. He tried to focus on his breaths - _In, out, in, out_ , he commanded himself - but felt his body shiver nonetheless. "Walking, fighting, and fucking," Tormund reminisced with a laugh, "too bad we can't be fucking instead."

Too bad, indeed. At least he _had_ been fucking relatively recently. That certainly hadn't been on Gendry's pre-battle plan, though it was a welcome addition. For a moment, he thought back to the hours before the battle, the warmth and surprise of laying with Arya, the hope that had simmered in his chest as he found her hand and fell asleep beside her. Now that was gone, replaced with a crushing knowledge of how short his life would really be.

A commotion occurred suddenly and all around them the dragonglass arakhs he had suffered over lit aflame. He didn't understand how or what was going on, but he was glad to at least be able to see better. Maybe it was best he didn't ask questions about fire magic, especially considering his one interaction with it in Dragonstone.

The Dothraki were screaming now. War whoops and excited cheers rang out among their ranks as the rest of the battlefield watched on in silence.

In seconds, they were off. They were like nothing Gendry had ever seen before, confident and full of excitement as they galloped into the darkness. But as quickly as they had rode out, their flaming swords were snuffed out. The battlefield was dark and silent again.

Gendry inhaled sharply as heard horses galloping towards them; he was certain this was the moment. He pictured the White Walker he had seen North of the wall - dozens of them coming towards him at a breakneck speed armed with ice weapons all aimed at his head and heart. He was wrong. Most of the horses were riderless, though he thought he could make out Jorah, a few Dothraki, and Jon's direwolf returning to the unsullied to the West.

Daenerys' commander shouted something in a language Gendry didn't recognize. He had stopped by the forge a few times in the past week to check on his men's weapons. Gendry liked him and his quiet but knowledgeable air. Now he was commanding his troops forward to be a line of defense against the creatures that had just wiped out twenty-thousand Dothraki like they were unarmed children.

He could hear it now, this wave of death coming for them. His heart raced and he wondered if there was anything left in his gut to throw up or shit out. The noise was terrible - a gnashing and snarling, snapping and clawing like rabid animals and demons.

They were here.

Gendry smashed in front of him with his mace, not even aiming at anything in particular. He swung as far as his arm could reach, then up and down in no discernible pattern. Fuck. Something grabbed his leg and he smashed it with the dragonglass-spiked tip. He couldn't see anything real, just a massive wall of reanimated corpses. Their faces were terrifying: sunken ice-blue eyes, missing jaws, exposed ribs, and severed limbs. He swung again and again, ignoring the screams around him and hoping he hit the dead and not one of their own.

Suddenly fire burned through the sky and destroyed the bodies charging towards them. The Dragon Queen had arrived.

Gendry breathed in but refused to look around him.

"Fall back!" He didn't need to be told twice. He turned on his heel and sprinted over the trench bridge to the castle gate. The Hound and Tormund were visible in his periphery - they were okay. Flaming arrows rained down around them, but he didn't dare look up to see if Arya was among the archers.

They reached a stairwell and Gendry shoved past the men walking up slowly to get to his position on the wall. He could see from here, at least. Why weren't the trenches lit?

Something was wrong. The dragon had ascended above the clouds again and the hoard of the dead was approaching the trench with no barrier. He watched in horror as living corpses tackled and destroyed torchbearers.

A series of burning arrows shot from the same section of the wall stuck into the wood, but they weren't enough. He followed their trajectory backwards to see that his suspicion was correct - Arya had fired them effortlessly. Despite the absolute terror in his gut, Gendry felt his lips part and move upwards at the sight of it.

That pride was cut short by a less welcome figure. The Unsullied brought her forward, a woman he could instantly recognize even without seeing her face. The Red Woman was here. For a moment, Gendry felt he was back in that room in Dragonstone, tied to a bed as leeches were being put onto his erect manhood and chest. Had Davos not saved him, he surely would have been burned alive within the day. Seeing her in front of him now sent chills down his spine.

Her magic seemed to work, and the trench was finally aflame. Gendry knew he should be grateful that she had just saved them, but he couldn't help but feel contempt rise up upon seeing her face.

If she knew he was there, she gave no indication. But she did notice someone - her eyes rose up and stopped on someone on the North rampart. _Arya_. Somehow Gendry was more angry now than he had been before. What did this witch want with Arya? He couldn't help but wonder if their final hours together had something to do with it. Should he not have told her the truth? Was the witch seeing something that had not yet come to pass? Gendry didn't like any of the scenarios his mind conjured. The Red Woman would not get near Arya, he would be sure of that.

"Man the walls!" The command tore Gendry out of his mind's wanderings. The undead were throwing themselves into the flames to bridge the way for their comrades. He watched as they ran to the walls and leapt up. The dead did not care about what would happen to their bodies or their families or the ones they loved; they smashed themselves into the rampart's base, then climbed their way up a wall of writhing bodies all intent on ending the lives of those protecting it. Gendry gripped his mace tightly as he watched their ranks rise.

Finally they reached him and he swung. His mace was better suited for this than the swords clamoring against the rock. Gendry swung a second, a third, a twentieth time. The dead just kept coming. He tried to ignore the terrified cries of those being pulled down the eighty foot drop only to be torn apart below; he tuned out the screams of those whose weapons didn't connect hard enough or the gurgles of men being skewered by corpses who had gotten over.

After what felt like an hour but may have been mere minutes, Gendry bellowed in frustration. He needed to pause to breathe and wipe the blood and sweat from his eyes, but he couldn't. If he missed a single swing he risked joining the still bodies lying all around them. He felt tears well up in his eyes like an errant child, but blinked them away with the next smash of his mace. The dead were coming from all sides now, and he felt himself losing hope.

Suddenly a voice he knew too well yelled out in fear. His head snapped to a nearby roof; Arya was sliding to a window, a crowd of wights all coming for her. Why was she alone? How had she even gotten there? It had to be at least five meters below and away from the nearest structure. He tried to think of how he might get to her but had no idea what parts of the castle lead to the window.

A dragonglass sword came perilously close to his throat as Tormund killed a body so close that it smashed into Gendry as it fell. The Wildling raised his orange brows in warning. "It's just you out here now," he said while cutting down incoming attackers. "Just you, that thing, and them" he gestured to the dragonglass mace and the sea of undead soldiers. Gendry swallowed hard and nodded. Despite the warning, he glanced back at the roof. Arya was gone. He tried to push the question of where she had gone - _Did she fall? Did she get inside? Are more waiting for her?_ \- from his brain as he swung his mace at the hands, swords, and gnashing teeth coming for him from every direction.

Soon the rampart was a lost cause. He and Tormund sliced and smashed their way to the courtyard, where they were soon surrounded. Sers Jaime and Brienne were close behind them, their squire following. Gendry saw them pressed against a wall and was unexpectedly glad to be in the open. He swung again, knocking off the first of barrage of terrifying corpses, then crashed the mace upon the next attacker. The dead kept coming, and soon he found himself standing atop their discarded bodies. Most of the Northern men who had been fighting alongside them had fallen, they were down to a few dozen at best, all of whom tried to keep the dead from advancing.

At least an hour passed and Gendry's arms were burning so badly he could barely lift his mace. He tried to swing drawing from his legs, but was knocked off balance among the shifting pile of corpses. Tormund grabbed him by the front of his gambeson; he was back to swinging. They were starting to make progress, the wights coming for them were more of a trickling stream than a gushing river. He tried to focus on his breaths as he smashed and reached out to every angle.

Just as soon as he had processed the decrease in attackers, something changed. Gendry felt a chill run over his whole body, like someone had dumped ice water upon him and left him exposed to wind. The bodies of their slain comrades began to twitch.

No… No this couldn't be happening. The corpses of Unsullied, Wildlings, and Knights of the Vale began opening their eyes - eyes that now shone a chilling shade of blue. Some part of him was considering smashing his mace upon his own head now to end it before it began.

Tormund clapped a large hand onto his shoulder. "Look at me!" He roared, "we're getting out of this. You're not dying here today," Gendry wondered if his panic had been more obvious than he'd thought. He kept breathing as Tormund shouted into his face, "Look at all these fuckers we killed. We'll just do it again," But, that wasn't possible. Gendry knew that. "And when we get out of here, we take the first women we see and we show them just how alive we are." Tormund was grinning and briefly looked over his shoulder towards the three fighters against the wall. Only he would find humor in a time like this.

Gendry nodded shakily. The rising dead were up and coming towards them again. He swung his mace and tried to ignore the fact the man whose skull it cracked had joked with him as he picked up his dragon glass spear the day before. He and Tormund were back-to-back now, smashing and stabbing at all sides. The pile below them grew larger as they stepped up with each fallen body.

A dragon roared behind him, but he didn't dare look to see if it was one of theirs or if it belong to the Night King.

He thought of Tormund's words: _We show them just how alive we are._ It was tempting, he couldn't lie. His mind retreated into a repeating projection of his night before while he brought the mace down again and again. He would do it another time, he would find Arya and show her what it could really be like to be with him. Flashes of the warmth of her body against his, the feeling of all the blood rushing from his head to below his belt, the sounds she had made against his throat - suddenly the burning in his back and arms wasn't so bad. He remembered the sensation of her skin under and over his, the way she had tasted against his lips… Tormund was right, they were getting out of this. He had to live.

Gendry kept swinging. He spotted Grey Worm near the bottom of their pile, stabbing through multiple wights at once with his spear and charging his shield into others. He and Tormund were at least eight feet high now, and the pile kept growing. He thought again of Arya - where was she now? Was she somewhere in the castle? Had she gotten away from these monsters? He tried not to think about how unlikely it was that she had. Arya could hold her own, she always had. Those scars on her stomach and side made him think she may have handled worse than any of this, if such a thing existed.

A wight grabbed his arm and nearly sliced through the leather over his shoulder. He shouted as he slammed his weapon into its face. Distraction was dangerous; he'd need to save those thoughts until after… if there was an after.

A spear pierced Tormund's arm by his side. The large man yanked it out and turned it around, driving it through the jaw of the risen Unsullied that had gotten to him. Gendry wasn't sure when he had gotten so far away from the Wildling - hadn't they been back to back minutes ago? Now they had a meter between them, the pile below them higher than ever.

This wasn't sustainable; for every wight they took down, five more poured through the castle gates. They had all taken some hits and it would only take one or two more mistakes to end it. Gendry stepped towards Tormund with his next swing, trying to close their gap and get some coverage behind them both.

And then suddenly the dead fell. Not just the one he had hit, but all of them. They fell at once, rippling out as if someone had thrown a stone into still water. It wouldn't be possible if he hadn't seen the same thing happen with a smaller group of wights on their exhibition North of the wall. Jon had done it; he had killed the Night King.

The moment reality set in, Gendry collapsed. He sat in a heap atop the mountain of bodies in disbelief. Slowly, the world came back to him.  
The stench hit him first - a putrid, thick wall of blood, shit, and rot. He retched but nothing come up.

Next was the pain. His arms and legs felt utterly destroyed, his back was a mess of burning knots. His clothes stuck to him and wouldn't shift. Blood covered his gambeson and face, though he was fairly certain it wasn't his own.

Third came sound and sight. After hours of red and brown blurs, other colors slowly emerged. Gendry's tunnel vision subsided and the courtyard was reborn before him. Voices rang out as people asked one another what was going on. He had not the voice to tell them. Tormund's boots appeared before him and he painfully craned his neck up in his direction. For once, the Wildling said nothing. He offered a hand to Gendry and pulled him up before kicking corpses out of his way as he descended their hill. Gendry followed silently.

The rest of the courtyard was in a state of chaos - thousands of bodies laid scattered about. Blood and who knew what else coated the ground as far as the eye could see. Slowly, people began to process the scope of their losses. Soldiers sobbed as their friends succumbed to their wounds. Gendry watched as Grey Worm sprinted into the castle towards the crypts. He had seen him with Daenerys' translator and had no doubts that was whom he sought out now. For an absurd second, Gendry wished he had someone to run to and collapse into, a lover to assure he was alright, a woman to hold close as he sobbed about the things worth living for. Arya wasn't that woman. Hells, he didn't even know if she remembered he existed after a battle like this. He was sure he'd see her cockily strut out any minute now, twirling the weapon he had made her without a scratch on her. Gendry had been afraid the entire battle; he had been ready for death to take him and terrified of the hoard that kept coming, but not Arya. Arya wasn't scared of anything.

Only, she _had_ been scared. Fear had flashed across her face for a moment as she reached for her new weapon before leaving the armory on their way to the battle. She thought he wasn't looking, but he'd seen it clearly for that one instant. As quickly as it manifested, it was replaced by a mask of neutrality, but it had been there for a single breath.

He scanned the warriors remaining, but she was not among them. Gendry took another breath and reminded himself Arya Stark was not someone who would be struck down by an undead soldier. A Wildling woman who had fought in their initial formation approached him with a bucket of water and a wet cloth. He gladly took it and wiped his face, afraid to look at the rags after they had removed the grime and blood.

Another look around the courtyard. Still no Arya. An anxious ache was starting to build in his stomach now. Where was she? Those who couldn't fight and had stayed in the crypts emerged, many covered in blood. Sansa Stark led them out. Her face was even as she surveyed the damage and looked for her family. Gendry overheard her as she approached Brienne and asked about her siblings; his heart beat faster when the knight confirmed she hadn't seen any of them.

Gendry walked into the halls, where Davos nodded at him with a soft smile. "I knew you'd make it," he said.

He smiled back and tried to ignore the fact he knew his eyes didn't match his mouth. "Have you seen -" he didn't get a chance to finish the question. Davos looked at him with remorse. "Lad, if you're looking for someone you'd better stop now. After a battle like this you're best off waiting til they seek you out. If they're alive, they will." Gendry's eyes focused on something vague on the wall and he nodded tiredly as Davos turned to pass a goblet of water to a nearby child.

He shouldn't let himself worry about her. If there was one person in this entire realm who didn't need people worrying about them, it was Arya. He knew he should go bathe and rinse his clothes; he'd benefit from seeing a medic about the gash in his leg and getting a few hours of sleep.

He trudged towards the forge to the small room he had been sleeping in. There was an empty tub, but he lacked the patience to fill it. Instead, he grabbed a few buckets of water from the forges - they had to be cleaner than the blood and gore stuck to him - and stripped down. The leathers and chainmail stuck to his skin and tugged his hair painfully, but the liquid didn't even feel cold as it ran over his skin. He wondered if he'd regain full sensation when he had a chance to rest.

For all of three seconds, he laid down upon his cot. His body ached and his eyes could barely stay open, but Gendry couldn't sleep without knowing what had happened to Arya. He cursed himself for not having something else to wear as he put back on his blood-crusted leathers and walked out of the empty forge.

When he returned to the courtyard, Tormund was overzealously grinning at Jon, the blood of battle still splattered across his face. Jon did not look like a man who had just defeated death itself - his clothing was singed and torn, and he seemed exhausted.  
Gendry scanned the courtyard again. Where was she? The dead were beginning to be collected now and stacked by main allegiance. Surely if Arya was among them he'd see her tiny body above the others; they wouldn't let her be forgotten below a thousand random lowborn men.

He sighed and turned the corner, letting his feet carry him through the muck to no destination in particular. He couldn't stand around waiting to find out what had happened to her forever.

Gendry turned around a corner of the castle he wasn't familiar with. Bran Stark was sitting in his polished wooden chair, speaking quietly to someone Gendry didn't know. She was behind him. Of course she was here.

Gendry let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding as he took her in. She looked worse than he felt - dark, crusted blood was dried along her forehead and right cheek and matted in her wild, sweat-drenched hair. A shocking bruise was forming surrounding the cut and snaking down, darkening around her right eye. She looked as empty as Jon had while she gazed forward.  
Suddenly the lust-driven thoughts that had kept him swinging his mace during battle seemed perverse. He wanted to run to Arya, to wrap his arms around her and press her face to his chest to make her rest upon him until she was healed and the world seemed a little less likely to hurt her again.

Gendry looked her over a second time, unable to interrupt her brother's conversation. Just as he was about to turn and walk back to who knew where, Arya turned and saw him. Her brows softened and a deep relief seemed to radiate from her eyes as her shoulders released slightly. So she had worried about him, after all. He started walking towards her to say something, anything, that might lead to the two of them having a moment in private.

"We need your help, Gendry," a northern-accented voice said. He turned to see a fellow smith who immediately rambled on about needing to inventory and repurpose the weapons of the fallen soldiers. Gendry turned his head to see Arya again, perhaps to gesture that he'd be right there, but her back was to him as she pushed Bran in the opposite direction.

Sighing, he followed the smith back to the forge.

  
\--  
  


Later that afternoon, when the dead had been as accounted for as best they could manage with tens of thousands of corpses and the cooks had been prepared to ready a feast for the survivors, Winterfell stood still.

Gendry came to pay his respects shortly before they lit the pyres. Many of those who had fallen had worked alongside him in Dragonstone to mine dragonglass or in the forge to prepare the weapons. Others had fought beside him on the vanguard only to be cut down by death's icy blade long before their time should have been up.

The dead were still grouped by their loyalty and had been placed on wooden palettes. The living seemed to be divided by their allegiances, as well. Gendry saw Arya and walked towards her; he had spent an absurd amount of time thinking about what he might say to her. _Told you I'm a fighter_ or maybe _Told you I did my share_ were the best he could come up with even after hours of running the words over in his mind.

Davos stepped in front of him, unknowingly interrupting his path. He nodded at Gendry solemnly as he took in the spectacle of the unlit pyres.

Daenerys and Jon Snow started the ritual, silently bringing torches to the oil-soaked wood. Tormund, Arya, Grey Worm, and Sansa brought the second and final round of fire. It seemed ludicrous to use torches to light thousands of bodies considering the fact that they had two dragons, but Gendry figured the ceremony was part of the process.

The grief was palpable despite the silence; many held back sobs as they mourned their fallen comrades swiped away in a battle that lasted mere hours but would stay with the survivors for a lifetime.

The smell of burning bodies momentarily brought Gendry back to King's Landing the day the Sept of Baelor had been exploded. The city reeked of burnt hair and charred bone for months after that, and he wasn't keen on experiencing it again. He distracted himself by studying the people around him. Davos had his eyes shut as tears silently streamed down his face; Sansa Stark's shoulders shook as if she was trying to stop full-body sobs from wrecking her; even the Hound seemed visibly shaken, though Gendry wasn't sure if that was because of the fire or the war.

He was unsure why he didn't feel as they did. The battle had been horrific, he had cut down reanimated men he had fought beside hours earlier and even contemplated ending his own life mid-swing, yet he now was numb. Some part of him deep within his core desperately hoped he might thaw after the feast and a decent night's sleep.

Although the bodies hadn't yet turned to ash, the crowd was ushered into the great hall as soon as the sun sank below the horizon.

The Starks sat at the main table, Daenerys and her advisors among them. Arya was with them, though she didn't seem thrilled to be there. Servants brought out platters of roast chicken, salted cabbage, and hand pies before filling cups to the brim with wine or mead. Gendry sat between Davos and Tormund at a table with Brienne of Tarth, Jaime Lannister, Podrick, and the Hound. He'd much prefer to be with the other lowborn lads further back, but Davos had insisted that he join them.

Daenerys rose from her seat with a smile that didn't quite reach her blue eyes. "In these times it is easy to become focused on our losses," her voice rang out, "The reality is that we have survived because we needed to. We have defeated the threat from the North because of the sacrifices of those who lay down their lives so we could keep going." The hall erupted into a cheer as everyone chugged their beverages down in agreement. "But we are also here because of the actions of one person. The Night King is no more." Gendry looked towards Jon, expecting him to give some sort of victory speech, but he did not rise. "Tonight we celebrate the victory brought to us by one who protected their family in the face of death itself. Tonight we continue to breathe because of Arya Stark." A buzz broke out among the room. Many looked to one another in confusion; whispers sounded as people asked one another if they had misheard.

"To Arya," Jon said, awkwardly standing up to raise his glass high in the air. Arya looked uncomfortable. She didn't look out at the hall and palmed the dagger resting on her hip as though it calmed her.

Davos started their applause, his brows raised in acceptance more than surprise. Soon the hall joined in in a deafening roar of clapping and shouting. Gendry clapped amidst his shock and confusion. Had Arya really killed the Night King?

Of course she had. That was Arya: disappearing from your life for a few years, only to show up and save the world when everyone else was just trying to stay alive. Gendry felt himself grinning like a fool as he looked at her shifting in discomfort with their attention. She seemed to realize that they were waiting for her to say something. Still seated, she raised her chalice with her left hand. "For the North," she cheered.

The Hall approved loudly and Daenerys instructed them to celebrate and revel in the joy of having lived another day. She smiled sweetly at Arya before sitting, then turned to say something to Tyrion Lannister by her side

Gendry eagerly drank the wine from his cup and tore into the chicken. One bowl of Davos' soup was all he had eaten in days and his appetite was finally returning. The Hound grabbed an entire chicken for himself and nearly knocked Gendry's goblet over in the process. The table spoke more as their libations flowed, transitioning from awkward, battle-shocked soldiers to drunken fools in under an hour. Davos was the first to mention Arya's achievement.

"Makes sense, if you ask me. Saw the girl cut down twenty of those fuckers in a single minute," he told them proudly. Gendry wanted to ask if she had used his weapon, but the Hound said something bitterly to himself and the chance was gone.

He turned towards her again and saw her watching him. Unlike the day before, when he had caught her undressing him with her eyes in the forge as he tempered a blade, her eyes didn't seem to challenge him. Gendry wished they would.

He poured himself an overflowing goblet of mead and listened to Brienne tell a tale of the time she had sparred with Arya. He didn't dare add to their stories - what would he say? That he had known her when she escaped King's Landing years ago? That they had lain together before the battle? No, those things could be kept between the two of them. Gendry listened to their tales and tried to ignore the idiotic feeling in his chest. Feelings like this were for maidens who dreamt of princes and braided flowers into their hair, not bastard blacksmiths.

Arya had moved to a different table now. He rose suddenly and walked towards her with a confidence only drink could provide. Was it his imagination, or did she smile as he approached?

"Guess you really are a fighter," she said to him with defiance glimmering in her eye.

_Fuck_. Now what was he supposed to say? He didn't have a chance to respond before three knights of the Vale were interjecting to offer Arya more ale. She readily accepted and repeated her For the North toast.

Gendry returned to the table for more wine and another hand pie. Tormund was telling an impossible story about lying with a bear when he sat. The table responded with a tipsy mixture of disgust, shock, and laughter, though all were heartily entertained. Jaime Lannister cocked his head at the large man, unsure of how to respond, and brought his cup to his lips to hide a judgmental grin.

They shared more tales, some clear lies and others rooted in shadowy truths, and continued drinking. Gendry kept getting distracted looking for Arya. It made sense that people would seek her out now that she had saved the realm, but he wasn't sure he liked it. She deserved for people to know and celebrate her, of that he had no doubt. Still, some part of him felt as though the entire North had just learned a secret only he had known.

They made eye contact again and he stood up without breaking it. He made it five paces towards her, never breaking his gaze, when a man leapt between them.

"Lady Stark!" The man shouted drunkenly, "To the beauty of the North, the savior of the seven kingdoms, the slayer of the night!" Arya looked amused at his slurred half-song and raised her glass again.

"Thank you," she said after a large gulp.

Gendry looked the man up and down in contempt. He was smaller than the smith, and wearing some poorly made armor under his cloak. Anyone who wears armor outside of battle is a damned fool, Gendry thought to himself. He stepped closer to Arya, but was interrupted by another would-be suitor, this one a young lord of some self-important Northern family.

This man was less musical but just as deluded. He told some fable about having seen Arya's kill of the Night King in person. Gendry didn't even need to look at him to know his type. He was sure he'd recognize the soft hands and shallow eyes of a man who could barely swing a sword, never mind survive what they had.

Disgruntled, he walked to his table again.

Davos had left by then, likely gone to sleep off the wine. Podrick asked Gendry a question about King's Landing, and he made up some bullshit to explain how he had wound up following Jon North. The two talked for a bit without really saying anything. They spoke of the capital and its few fine points - weather; the sea; and, Podrick insisted, women - and its shortcomings - Cersei, shit, and overcrowding, to name a few. Podrick refilled their glasses with more ale and bit into a sweet bread. The ale brought them closer as they discussed the absurdity of the North and its many proud but useless lords. How could so many families think they mattered? For that matter, how could so many families want to live in the cold anyhow? Podrick had no answer, and they mulled over the question as they drank.

Two tables over, two clean-shaven knights from the Eyrie sang a song Gendry hadn't heard before. Others scattered throughout the hall joined in, slamming their cups and hands onto the table to create music to accompany the off-pitch lyrics.

"Seven fucking hells," the Hound said in irritation. He slugged his massive cup back and refilled it just as quickly.

The men continued singing the song for a second time, this time cheered on by the Imp's claps and cheers. Gendry didn't know him well, but he quite liked the man despite the fact he was a Lannister. His renown for drinking and whoring may not be as obvious now, but he was certainly the most fun person in the North. Gendry smiled at his drunken support.

The Hound swore again, and Gendry rolled his eyes at his annoyance. He looked over at the massive man, only to see a look of disgust and confusion on the scarred face of a man staring directly at him. What had he done now? Was being entertained now enough to earn his disdain?

Gendry turned his body forward again and nearly spat out his ale when he realized what the Hound had reacted to. Arya was at the table in front of them now, staring at him unabashedly. Her gaze was somehow stronger than it had been in the forge, and he had no doubt she was imagining the same things he had been a few hours earlier.

He wasn't sure how to react in front of all of these people, though only the Hound seemed to notice. Irritated, the tall man swooped up an entire pitcher of ale and proceeded to another table.  
Gendry stared back at Arya, who was still looking at him like he was the last drop of water in a Dornish desert. He stared back this time. If she could look at him like that, he didn't see why he couldn't do the same.

Arya hopped off the table, raised her brows for a fraction of a second, and walked towards the main doors. She stopped for a moment to make sure he saw her looking back at him, then opened the doors and walked out. Gendry hurriedly grabbed his cup and followed a minute later.

She was waiting for him in the hall when he came out. Her lips turned up in a smirk when she saw him and lead them into a part of the castle he hadn't seen yet. They climbed two flights of stairs and entered a quiet, dark hallway. Arya stopped in her tracks and turned to him. Her hands pulled his face down to hers before he even realized she had touched him at all. He eagerly kissed her back, only for her to pull back and walk towards a room at the end of the hall.

She opened the door and he realized these must be her chambers. He hadn't given much thought to where Arya slept, but he would at least have assumed it would be less bare. Some furs lined the bed and a few weapons lined the wall, but the only other decorations were a Stark sigil, a few books, and some candles flickering in the dark.

Arya closed the door behind him and locked it with a wooden crossbeam, then slowly approached him.

"The savior of the seven kingdoms," Gendry said mockingly. Arya shot him a death stare. He drank another sip from his goblet and offered it to her. She eagerly took it with both hands and swallowed hard, then returned it to him. The candlelight made the bruising around her eye look worse, and suddenly Gendry's lust was less urgent.

He put down his drink and approached her. As gently as he could, he traced the cut on her forehead and the bruising along her face. His hand fell to cup the side of her cheek as he looked her over again. Here she was, Arya Stark, the woman who had killed the Night King, but also the girl who had pretended to be a boy to take the black and get back to her brother all those years ago.

She looked up at him and he moved his hand slowly down past her hair to the base of her head, his fingertips resting lightly over her still-messy hair. She stepped closer still and raised a gloved hand to touch his face as she kissed him again. Despite the stares and the intensity of their kiss minutes earlier, this kiss was slower and more tender - a gentle breeze after a thunderstorm. He kissed her back at the same pace as though he'd be perfectly content to stand like this forever.

She pulled him with both hands on his waist, their lips still attached, towards her bed, where she pushed him down and straddled him to kiss him more.

Gendry didn't really know what they were doing, but he wasn't going to risk ruining it by asking.  
  


\--  
  


Arya lay in her bed next to Gendry as his hands traced abstract shapes along her stomach and thighs.

They hadn't said a single word since they had drunk from his cup, and he wasn't sure they needed to. They were both in desperate need of sleep to heal their wounds and quiet their minds, but he wasn't ready to leave this moment. After a few minutes, he finally swung his legs over her to get dressed.

"Where are you going?" She asked him, an undertone he couldn't identify beneath her voice.

"You need to sleep. I need to sleep." Gods, he sounded lie an idiot.

"So sleep." He pulled up his britches begrudgingly; the forge seemed farther than ever. "Here," she said as she placed a hand on the furs by her side. Gendry hadn't considered staying in her room. What if someone came in the morning? What if someone had seen him go up with her in the first place?

Her grey eyes met his and any argument died in his throat. He shook off his britches and hurried back to her bed, where he eagerly wrapped her in his arms.

Something occurred to him and he chuckled out loud. Arya turned to him with a judgmental face.

"What?" She asked pointedly.

"So we did this because we were going to die," Gendry replied, a current of humour running through his voice, "And then we did this again because we didn't die." Arya didn't reply. "I'm just wondering why we'll do this next."

"I'm sure something will come up." She turned towards him, facing him with her tired eyes.

"Because it's cold?" He asked, half-joking.  
"Winter won't be that cold without the Others," Arya chided.

"Because it's not cold?"

She laughed then; it was a soft laugh, but a laugh none-the-less. The sound made him pull her closer as he kissed her once more before closing his eyes to drift off to a world of dreams.


End file.
